


All This Time

by DreamingAmethystDragons



Category: Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic
Genre: Breakfast in Bed, Fluff, Humor, Inside jokes, M/M, kinda... domestic, marriage proposals, sinja zine entry, zine entry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 13:55:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17081555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamingAmethystDragons/pseuds/DreamingAmethystDragons
Summary: At first it was just an inside joke - a silly, spur-of-the-moment one, yes, but just a joke.  Until, apparently, it wasn’t.Written as my entry for the sinja zine.





	All This Time

 

The first time, they are young and dumb and possibly have just lost years off their lives, a problem quickly forgotten in the thrill of  _ gods, we’re alive _ .

Ja’far is flat on his back, looking up at a sky so impossibly endlessly blue he can’t believe he hasn’t taken the time to breathe and stare so long before, sucking air into his lungs like it’s suddenly become a precious commodity.  He senses more than sees Sinbad doing the same next to him, body askew next to his, but Ja’far’s very aware of the feel of Sin’s hair tickling where Ja’far unwittingly sprawled upon it. If he looks out of the very furthest corner of his eye he can see the glint of gold earrings, of lashes fluttered closed, of a grin far bigger than the situation perhaps merits.

Not, of course, that he’s looking.

The fact remains that the trading company is, actually, going to exist to see another day, that all the weapons pointed their way in the past four hours have not embedded in any stomachs or chests or throats, and although Ja’far’s missing a shoe and gained a stripe of pain up one arm and the far side of Sin’s face is coated dried crimson, they’re  _ breathing _ and really, what more is there to ask?

He turns his head and somehow is unsurprised to find Sin lolling over to meet his eyes, features exhausted save for that smolder still glinting deep in his eyes.  Ja’far feels it like a rumble of the earth, like a ship on the uppermost crest of a wave, and maybe he turned nineteen two days ago but right now he’s endless.

And Sinbad opens his mouth and says, “Hey, will you marry me?”

Before Ja’far’s mind even catches up with the situation, before a several-year-long crush can be mercilessly squashed, he replies.

“Not yet.”

\---

Over the stretch of many years, what would grow into a repeated proposal of marriage becomes something akin to an inside joke.  That first time may not have been meditated upon, but subsequent ones appear to be, and Ja’far  _ still  _ has no idea why Sinbad keeps it up.  

It’s far from an everyday thing, or at least, it wasn’t until recently.  He’s just been abruptly woken from the best deep sleep he’s had in a while (which, yes, does not say much) to something (someone) sitting down on his mattress.  With reflexes honed over years (and paranoia) a knife is almost immediately in his hand and poised inches away from his king’s throat. His king who, it should be mentioned, is wearing nothing but billowing silken-grey pants and carefully balancing a tray on his lap.  Suspicious, Ja’far squints at the gold eyes looking nonchalantly back at him.

… Not even earrings.  He can’t remember the last time he didn’t see Sinbad wearing those.  His eyes skitter over Sin’s bare chest, aware that the expression on his face is probably more visible than he wants it to be.  Are those  _ pancakes _ ?

“Morning,” Sinbad offers after another beat.  “That’s a bit of a longer knife than I’m used to seeing.”

Ja’far knows he does a double take.  Right, his rope darts were in repair right now.  The dirk was offered by an unabashedly cheerful Yamu the other day, and Ja’far hadn’t the time to question her on it.  With a small, disgusted huff he tosses the blade to the far side of the bed. “Usually I’m the one waking you,” he says instead, leaving the  _ you’re terrible to pry out of your bed _ and  _ why are you not wearing a shirt _ out of it.  Sinbad’s torso has only gotten more attractive over the years, but he will never hear that from Ja’far.  He’s stomping down the fourteen-year-old self that lives in the back of his mind and that incessant  _ crush _ with no less than steel-toed boots.  

“Oh, um.”  Sinbad juggles the tray in his lap as he makes himself comfy.  He’s starting to look sheepish, as though realizing that just maybe his actions have consequences.  (It’s taken long enough.) “I didn’t sleep well, and I was wide awake early enough that I just decided to get up.  And then I decided I wanted to make breakfast. And… then I thought, since I made extra, Ja’far might want some…?” He trails off, looking unabashedly earnest save for the burning hue of his ears. 

With a grunt, Ja’far levers himself fully up, pulling his feet towards his body.  He went to bed not wearing a shirt either in the unusually muggy summer heat, but the two of them have seen each other in varying states of undress since they were kids.  He’s not sure about the sudden startled flick of Sinbad’s eyes, but he’ll ignore it for the moment. “So you just went and accosted the kitchen for your own use?”

Sinbad throws him a wounded look.  “The head cook loves me, you know.”

“She loves you because you paid for her child’s medicine and gave her a job all those years ago.  I’m pretty sure that she still feels like she owes you a life debt.”

“Ja’far, that was the least I could do.  And it would be a shame for someone who makes Parthevian seafood stews that good to not be able to ply their craft.”

“What passes as respectable cuisine in your book only has to limbo under an amazingly low bar, Sinbad.”

Sinbad only gives him what he probably thinks are puppy eyes.  “Ja’far. If you’re going to complain, will you at least try them first?”

Well.  It  _ does _ look (and smell) good: large, fluffy pancakes with butter on the side, fragrant mint and honey tea, and a small dish of artfully cut fruit.  Ja’far doesn’t have much more than tea and a light snack for breakfast most days anyway. Well…

“Only if you’ll eat them with me.”  

He ignores the way Sinbad lights up and reaches for a fork - but between the two of them, their knees make a pretty stable stand, and his teasing aside, as long as it isn’t campfire food Sinbad’s cooking has always been more than passible.  

He forks up another bite of pancake and hums, thoughtfully.  Obviously, it’s the novelty of being made breakfast in bed that makes him say, offhanded, “I’d be willing to marry for pancakes like this everyday.”

He chews several more times before looking up to see Sinbad frozen, mid bite.

“Sin?”

Sinbad stares at him, lowers his fork.  Looks at the strawberry slowly sliding off the edge.  Looks at Ja’far. Then he sets it down fully and says, “After all this time?  Is that a proposal?”

After... all this time?

…  _ Oh _ . 

Ja’far reaches over to spear the strawberry Sin just dropped, fighting to keep his face neutral.  He pops it in his mouth and asks, muffled, “If it was?” - and he’s not prepared to see Sinbad’s face flame, eyes wide and honest in a way he’s rarely seen.

“Ja’far.”  Sinbad’s voice is quiet, but he’s making an effort to meet his eyes.  “I know I’ve passed it off as a joke most of the time, but there was always a part that was serious when I asked…”

… Well.  About two decade’s worth of fluttering hearts and about thirty-eight different proposals (not that he was keeping track) click into place, and Ja’far makes an impulse decision.  Except, it’s not really spur-of-the-moment, is it? 

He’s known all his life whose side he wants to be by.

“Sinbad, would you marry me?”

Something to remember: Sinbad stammering and beaming is a gift, and first kisses are definitely better shared over breakfast.  And if tears are shed and smiles pressed into collarbones, well, no one needs to know. 

That’s a secret best kept by two.  

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted to my tumblr.
> 
> As always, dear readers, thanks for reading. Your kudos and comments have meant a lot to me.


End file.
